


Inopportune

by jncxo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, His Last Vow Spoilers, I can't tag everyone I want because it's a surprise, Lestrade Whump, Moriarty - Freeform, Post-His Last Vow, Surprise Ending, Whump, did you miss me?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jncxo/pseuds/jncxo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picks up where His Last Vow left off. Greg and Molly react to the return of a certain psychopath. Greg plays the hero when the unexpected happens. Lestrade whump, shameless Molly/Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inopportune

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by tumblr anon: "Can you write a one-shot about Molly being attacked and then Greg comes and saves her and they live happily ever after?? After the Lestrade whump of course…"
> 
> A/N: I was half done with this request before His Last Vow premiered, and I ended up the entire thing and made this completely new, longer-than-the-bible oneshot (IT’S 4,000 WORDS JESUS HOLY). I finished at 4 in the morning so hopefully everything reads coherent enough? also, the best Brit-picking I can do is from my own limited knowledge and whatever Microsoft Word will fix, so apologies if anything is amiss!
> 
> Disclaimer: these characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, respectfully. I just took my little plot bunny and ran with it.

Greg Lestrade was in a good place.

He was enjoying an afternoon off at the pub around the corner of his flat, ready to have a few pints, relax, and watch football. Greg was in the company of a good mate of his, Daniel, whom he’d befriended a few years back in that very same pub, drinking himself weepy whilst going through his divorce. Both had come a long way since; Daniel, now nearly forty, was married and had a baby daughter whose pictures he enjoyed showing off, and Greg, ten years his senior, was enjoying his successful recent arrest record, and still high off the joy of the Christmas Eve dinner he spent with Molly Hooper.

Greg couldn’t help the goofy smile that plastered itself onto his face at the memory. Could it really be true that just four Christmases ago he was only noticing Molly for the first time? The two of them had been through quite a bit of heartbreak on their own since, but both had come out on top, and, in his opinion, were better suited for each other than ever. It was likely presumptuous to be thinking so, but Greg let his mind wander anyway: he looked forward to sharing the joy of their accomplishments together, in the near future. Very near, hopefully. In fact… Greg shoved his hand into his pocket, digging for his phone. Perhaps Molly would agree to dinner tonight, once she got off work? He excused himself from the booth he was sharing with Daniel, offering to grab him another pint for the both of them. He sent her a quick text before returning his attention to the screen above the bar.

It was almost spectacular how quickly Greg’s enthusiasm faded. It was as if time slowed down, truly; Greg booed along with several other patrons as the sweeper’s foot collided with the ball, knocking it away, and the next second, he was staring into the devious, crazed face of none other than Jim Moriarty.

“ _Did you miss me_?”

The words echoed on loop, accompanied by a static-framed picture of the psychopath Greg Lestrade was certain he’d seen the last of. The major news networks had recently run out of information for their pieces discrediting Richard Brook, and Sherlock was ever so insistent he’d demolished Moriarty’s web of criminals. And yet…

“ _Did you miss me_?”

As Greg watched the picture cut in and out on every screen in the pub, he had a gut-wrenching thought that nudged its way to the front of his mind: Molly was somewhere alone. Molly might be in danger.

Without hesitation, he dialled her immediately, each ring in his ear causing a spike in his blood pressure, until her voice materialized, feather-light in his ear. “Greg.”

“Molly – Jesus Christ, Molly, it’s – it’s him, it’s Moriarty, his face is all over the telly –”

“I know, Greg, he – he’s on my computer screen.”

Greg had gotten so used to Molly’s newly-found confidence, proud that she finally seemed comfortable in her own skin, but the softness of her voice, the tone of her words took him back ages, back to when she was hopelessly in love with Sherlock Holmes and too naïve to know any better, when she could barely speak to him aloud without tripping over her words. She sounded so unsure of herself, so terrified out of her mind – and with good reason, he was sure.

“You stay right there, Molly,  _stay put_ ,” he told her. “I’m coming to get you and I’m taking you home.”

“Greg –”

“Don’t argue.”

“Just… Just hurry.”

Greg fumbled for his wallet, extracting a fiver for Daniel’s beer and slapping it on the countertop before returning to their table. Daniel’s eyes were wide. “Greg, is that – on the telly –?”

“Yeah, it is, mate. I’ve got to dash.”

Greg set the pint down in front of Daniel, clapped him on the shoulder, and wound his way through the stunned, chattering football fans gathered around the bar. He arrived at the door and surveyed the overcast London sky, and the bustling crowd of people below it. He debated momentarily. Greg had left the squad car back at his flat, knowing he’d be drinking, and he was rubbish at hailing cabs in the best of circumstances. The nearest tube station was so far that it was hardly worth the trip…

“Bollocks,” Greg cursed under his breath. He inhaled, exhaled, and darted from the club, and began to run. He and Daniel hadn’t consumed enough between the both of them to truly slow him down, though as he ran he could feel the beginnings of a headache form at the base of his skull, but Molly had a history with Moriarty, and if Greg knew anything about the psychopath, it was that his idea of a game wasn’t fun in the slightest.

The mania seemed to be slowly spreading; some folks on the street were going along with their business as though nothing were wrong, looking at Greg as though he were a madman for sprinting down the pavement. Others, he bumped shoulders with as they stood, stock-still, staring agape at their smart phones.

Greg rounded a corner and an animated billboard came into view; Moriarty was no longer chanting, “ _Did you miss me_?” and now had his head thrown back, laughing. Greg’s blood ran cold. It seemed as if Moriarty were taunting him from beyond the grave. Despite the ache in his legs, he quickened his pace.

Greg burst through the doors of Saint Bart’s, and headed to the morgue on autopilot, opting for the stairs and nearly falling on his face in his haste. Finally, he reached the mortuary, coming face-to-face with an empty room. His heart sunk.

“Christ almighty –  _Molly_!” Greg called out her name, wincing at the desperation in his voice. There was a creak and she was there, out of her office and at his side in a flash.

“Oh, Greg, oh, my God,” she muttered, grasping at fistfuls of his coat, her face blotchy. She finally pulled him into a tight hug, which he returned more gently. She squeezed, then stood back to look at him, and he could see panic tugging at the corners of her features as she examined him up-close. “You’re… sweating,” she finally commented, the nervous chuckle not touching her eyes.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, I ran.”

“Ran? From where? Why?”

“The Orchard,” he replied, smoothing his hands over her shoulders to calm her. “Bloody awful at hailing cabs, I am, it seemed much quicker, but what’s really troubling is –”

“You ran here? To me?”

“– His face is everywhere.”

Both Molly and Greg paused, blushing at the awkwardness of speaking over one another, and Greg spoke first.

“Listen, it’s nearly four now, and if – if you’ve no more to do here, well. Let’s get you home, love, okay?”

Molly’s face turned redder, ignited by the endearment, but she nodded and returned to her office to gather her purse and coat before following Lestrade out the doors of the mortuary.

“What d’you mean everywhere?” Molly asked when the two were safely in a cab (hailed by Molly), unsure whether she truly wanted an answer or not. She gave the driver her address before turning to face Greg.

“All over,” he replied, shaking his head and glancing out the window. “On the telly, popping up on people’s phones, on the advertisements in the street – anywhere there’s a screen receiving a signal, it seems.” He paused, looking down at his lap. “And… and yes. What you asked earlier.” He took a deep breath. “Yes, of course I ran. I want to protect you. Not that you  _need_  protecting,” he amended quickly, “I just, well… To be quite honest, Molly, I panicked. Jim Moriarty is dangerous and… and I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you.”

Molly took in a shaky breath and twisted her hands together in her lap, studying them intently for a long moment.

“I’ve upset you,” Greg breathed out, shifting awkwardly in his seat. “I’m sorry, Molls, I’ve got to learn to just shut up, always saying the wrong bloody thing. I mean. I know you’re a strong woman, and you don’t  _need_  a protector –”

A warm hand closed over Greg’s, giving a gentle squeeze, and when he glanced at Molly in surprise, the corner of her mouth was raised in a half smile, that beautiful blush returned to the upper side of her cheeks. Jesus, she was gorgeous. And holding herself together so well. It was a true testament to her growth; Greg remembered interviewing her after Moriarty had met Sherlock at a public pool, how she’d cracked, broken down sobbing once learning the news of her recent ex-boyfriend’s crimes. Now, though there was a definite anxiety there, Molly seemed very resilient, despite the stress being put upon her. He slid his thumb around her hand and squeezed back.

Though it caused a polite and short row, Greg paid the cabbie for their trip, and escorted Molly to her flat, scanning the street carefully as they approached the building and keeping a watchful eye out until they were safely at her door.

“Molly, if you don’t mind,” Greg said slowly, withdrawing the handgun he kept on him at all times. Molly flinched, but it quickly dawned on her what Greg meant, and she gestured for him to enter the flat in front of her, carefully closing and locking the door behind them. Greg checked the flat over with keen copper eyes; all he found out of place was a pillow on her bedroom floor, which turned out to be a  _living thing_  that hissed at him and darted under Molly’s bed.

“Don’t mind Toby,” Molly had called from the other room, snickering. “He gets jealous.”

“What would he have to be jealous of?” Greg replied coyly as he came back to the sitting room, re-holstering his gun and raising his eyebrows at Molly. The two shared an easy, flirtatious smile with each other, both mentally kicking themselves in the next second for being so bloody obvious.

_He’s just being nice, you silly twat, get over yourself._

_She’s scared out of her mind and you’re snooping through her bedroom and thinking with your prick. Get a grip, Lestrade._

“So, um,” Molly finally said, her nerves returning. “I think it’s safe to rule out watching telly, but, well. I, I could make you some dinner, if you’re hungry.”

“Oh, no, I don’t want to intrude –” Greg started, torn between politeness and desire to stay in Molly’s company.

“Please stay,” Molly said, surprising even herself by the words tumbling from her mouth. “I – I want you here, with me.”

The honesty in Molly’s voice took Greg by surprise, but he was very pleased, nonetheless. The poor girl was starting to look so unsure of herself, so Greg made sure to keep the grin on his face in place. “I’d love to stay,” he enthused. “I just need to, er, make a phone call. To Scotland Yard, you know. I don’t know whom exactly they’ll sic on this issue. It’s not my division, of course. But I’d like to check in.”

Molly nodded, relaxing her mouth into what she hoped was a smile, and she sunk onto the couch, wrapping her arms around herself. Greg noted that she seemed to visibly relax when he stayed in the room to make the call; she truly did _not_  want to be left alone, did she? Though torn between his duty to the law and the rapidly growing affection for Molly, Greg knew for certain he wouldn’t leave her side until she was for sure she could handle herself.

Greg managed to get ahold of Donovan, but was only half paying attention to her words, fretting over several scenarios of Molly asking him to stay overnight with her. He kept asking Donovan to repeat herself, much to the sergeant’s annoyance, and Molly’s amusement; Donovan seemed anything but pleased, but the pathologist was giggling away, growing progressively louder until Greg finally ended the call, smirking.

“Think I’m funny, do you?” he asked, unable to keep the grin off his face.

Molly pulled a mocking, dazed expression, and croaked, “ _Wha_?” in an impression of Greg that made him throw his head back and laugh. “Is that how I sound?” he demanded, plopping down onto the couch beside her, sides aching from his chuckles.

“Maybe a little,” Molly replied, laughing along. The giggles seemed to come naturally, perhaps from nerves. “What’s so distracting?” Molly asked after a beat, and when their eyes met the air got very thick between them. The laughter had stopped, leaving Molly and Greg slouched on the couch shoulder-to-shoulder, faces a lot closer than they’d expected, and Molly’s words echoed in Greg’s ears as their eyes met.

Molly could hide nothing in the chocolate brown honesty of her gaze, and it reflected Greg’s heart perfectly; there was a spark between them, and there was no point in trying to deny it, but it was overshadowed by a cloud of trepidation and self-doubt, and perhaps the anxiety of the day wasn’t merely a cause of their laughter, perhaps _everything_  was heightened by the excitement, because Greg’s face was lowering towards hers before he even registered wanting to kiss her, and as he moved his hand up to cup Molly’s face he wondered whether he was any more sane than Moriarty for trying to romance a woman frightened to death by a dead man.

With as impeccable timing as every other event in Greg’s day, a knock sounded at Molly’s door that jolted both the cop and the pathologist from their daze, and both sat straight up on the loveseat before looking at each other questioningly. Greg reached a hand into his jacket and withdrew his gun, and he and Molly moved quickly to the door. Molly stood on tiptoe to look through the peephole and let out an angry, strangled sort of cry before wrenching the door open.

“Jesus fuck, Tom!”

Truth be told, there stood Molly’s ex fiancé in the doorway, and in that moment Greg was certain every ex-lover of this woman was hell-bent on ruining any chance he ever had with her. Thankfully, Molly seemed none too thrilled to see Sherlock’s lookalike on her doorstep. Greg sighed and tucked his gun away.

“Can I help you?” Molly snapped impatiently. Greg couldn’t help but feel pleased at how irritated she seemed; Tom had unknowingly interrupted a very private moment.

“Um, hi, Molly,” he offered sheepishly. “I was just in the neighbourhood and thought perhaps I’d check up on you?” He glanced nervously down the hallway. “Have you seen the telly this afternoon?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Molly replied, exasperated. She ran a weary hand over her face.

“Look, I know you don’t want to see me, okay? I’m the last person you want to see right now,” Tom babbled. “But I didn’t… I just…”

The sound of glass breaking echoed through the apartment, followed by a quick succession of thuds, and by the time Greg’s hand shot into his pocket for his gun, the crook of someone’s arm had locked around his throat and squeezed, cutting off the breath he’d just taken in. His body began to jerk, struggling against the attack.

He watched as Molly grabbed Tom’s stupid scarf and jerk him into the flat, slamming the door behind him and shoving him at the wall menacingly before whirling to face Greg. She gaped helplessly as he rocked his shoulders, trying to block the hold on his body. The lack of air in his throat was starting to affect his critical thinking, but in a brief stroke of inspiration he let the weight off his feet, dropping to his knees.

It was a bit of a struggle; whoever was choking Greg was at least his height, and their weight came down on the back of him, but the grip of their arm was loose enough for Greg to get a few good breaths in. Molly dove out of the way as they crashed to the ground in a heap, and a small scuffle ensued as Greg tried to claim dominance. His hand went, again, into his jacket for his gun, and there was an immediate blow to his jaw that knocked him sideways.

Greg sat up, eyes swimming, facing down the barrel of his own gun. His eyes came into focus, and before him stood a tall man dressed in a tracksuit and trainers and sporting a split lip and a sour expression. Greg felt the pressure of Molly’s hands on his shoulders, and he raised himself up on one elbow.  _Get up, you bloody idiot, get up and shield her._

“I’d say it’s common courtesy to knock, wouldn’t you?” Greg spat at the intruder. The man’s lips tightened in a grimace.

“I’m not common, Detective Inspector,” he replied in a deep baritone, still unsmiling. Keeping the gun aimed at Greg’s head, he turned his body to face Tom, still against the wall where Molly had shoved him. “Thank you, Porter. You’ve been most helpful.”

“Tom? What  _did_  you help him with?” Molly piped up, voice shaking; Greg couldn’t tell whether from fear or rage.

“Finding you, of course,” the strange man answered for him. “Good ‘ole Tom. Led me straight here, to find the morgue slut who ruined everything.”

“ _You shut up_!” Greg snarled, pushing himself to a sitting position. The intruder slammed him in the temple with the butt of his gun, and Greg’s vision swam before him, fading to black.

“ _Greg? Greg? Stay with me, please_ ,” a pretty voice pleaded in Greg’s ear. He felt as though he were underwater. “ _Come on, Greg! Please!_ ” His arms flailed, legs kicked. He pushed upward, up, up, up, until he finally broke the surface.

He was lying on the floor of Molly’s flat; he couldn’t have been out for more than a minute or two, but it was long enough to reduce Molly to tears, for which he hated himself immensely. But the man responsible for the break-in, the man currently in possession of his gun – Greg hated that man most of all.

“Okay,” Greg said, his voice hoarse, as Molly fussed over him, checking his jaw, then clutching his arm for dear life, “ _okay_. Will someone tell me what the  _bloody hell_  is going on?”

“Maybe you’d care to explain, Porter?” asked the man in the tracksuit, glancing behind him at Tom, who was still frozen in place by the wall. Tom merely stared. “Cat got your tongue?” the intruder taunted. “Okay, then. I’ll tell. Well. Miss Hooper, you’re sure in for a treat. You ought to have kept a better eye on your boyfriend, here.”

“What do you mean?” Molly asked angrily, sounding much braver than she felt.

“Tommy boy felt inspired by the  _courageous_  stories he heard about your good friend, Sherlock Holmes. So inspired, in fact, that he joined a little club. Have either of you heard of the Empty Hearse?”

“Oh, bollocks,” Greg cursed. Phillip Anderson, from forensics, had formed the group as a comfort to those who believed in the good Sherlock Holmes had done whilst alive, and theorized his death had been fake. If Anderson had anything to do with the break-in, Greg would personally fill an empty hearse with Anderson’s body.

“Yes,” Molly chimed in, “but what does that have to do with…?”

“Loads, I assure you, Miss Hooper,” replied the intruder, his lip curling. “You see, when Sherlock Holmes returned ‘from the grave,’ he granted the Empty Hearse’s founder, a Mr. Philip Anderson, with an interview, a sort of ‘How He Did It’ special. Porter and I bonded over a pint a few weeks ago, and he confided to me he knew where to get me a copy of this  _historic_  interview. So I took him up on it. Come to find out…” He shifted the gun to be pointed at Molly. “A bloody pathologist named Molly Hooper fucked up the records and spared his life. The same Molly Hooper, in fact, that was deemed unimportant to that very same detective she saved.”

“What?” Molly asked, breathlessly. “How did you –?”

“Who knew you had it in you?” he continued. “You certainly don’t look devious. But nobody expects it from the quiet ones, do they? You certainly know all about that, don’t you, Miss Hooper?”

Molly had gone stiff at Greg’s side; he too was growing very angry.

“I’m so sorry Molly,” Tom piped up from the doorway. “If I’d known –”

Tom’s apology was cut short by a loud pop. There was a sharp intake of air; whether it was Molly’s surprised breath, or Tom’s gasping exclamation, Greg was unsure, but suddenly the intruder had a second, smoking gun aimed at the doorway, and a scarlet stain was beginning to form on the front of Tom’s shirt.

“Shame, really. He was nice.” The intruder sighed. “But so disposable. Now, as for you two…” He pointed one gun at each of them. “I’m not going to kill you. Not yet, at least. But if you could, I need you to pass on a message for me.”

Molly’s hand found Greg’s, and they gripped each other tight, the true weight of the situation settling heavily on their shoulders.

“Let Mr. Sherlock Holmes know that while he may have eliminated the players from the game, he quite carelessly overlooked the teammates. Tell him Moran delivered the message. Good day.”

The intruder shoved one of the guns into the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms and sidestepped Tom’s unmoving body, letting himself out the door of Molly’s flat as though he were an acquaintance who’d popped in for a visit.

The click of the door closing echoed in the silence of the flat, and Molly let out a great burst of air, mixed with a sob. “Oh my God, Greg.” Her hands fluttered over his face inspecting him more closely. “Your jaw isn’t broken, thank goodness, though you may have a concussion. And – oh Jesus, Tom!” Molly jumped to her feet, and Greg struggled to roll over, his whole body aching. He watched helplessly as Molly checked for a pulse, brow frustrated, her expression growing less and less determined by each second. “I… I thought I had a pulse. It… stopped.” She let out another quiet sob, pressing her hands against her mouth and breathing heavily.

Greg carefully raised himself to a sitting position. His head was throbbing and the room was beginning to spin. “Just breathe, Molly. Please breathe. Do you have your mobile on you? Call 999. For once, let’s let other hospital staffs, other officers deal with it, okay?”

Molly nodded. She took a few more breaths in and out before digging out her phone and making the call. Then, it was just a matter of waiting.

“I feel numb,” she said softly, scooting across the floor to his side and tucking herself under his arm. “I feel like today didn’t happen, or something.” Greg raised a hand to wipe the tear tracks from her cheeks. “I just…” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I feel like I’ll never get away from all of this.”

“But you’re here,” Greg said, focusing his gaze on Molly’s face and ignoring the disarray of the room. “You’re here and you’re safe and that’s all that matters.” He smoothed his hand down her ponytail. “I realize this is incredibly inopportune, but I… Well, I care about you a great deal, Molly. I have for a while. I just… I want you to know that. I don’t want another day to go by without you knowing that.”

Molly offered him a sad smile. “ _Incredibly_  bad timing, yeah,” she replied, and a fresh set of tears leaked out. “But certainly not unpleasant to hear, no.”

The blare of sirens met their ears, and Greg breathed a sigh of relief. His day had turned to absolute shit in a relatively short period of time, but Molly was safe, if for the moment. He could sort out the rest tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> As much as I hate to say it, I really want to lengthen this fic and explore Moran and his connections but I'm undecided. Let me know your thoughts!


End file.
